#bitten lips

[anitabrassi]

[curlyy-hair-dont-care]

Bite

Draco's in the library poring over an Arithmancy problem.

He chews on his sugar quill, scrunches his nose like a cute bunny, then slaps his hand on the table.

That means he's figured it out. I know all his little quirks and ticks.

Draco scribbles on his parchment, absentmindedly biting his lips.

Another habit I'm familiar with.

The sight has heat pooling in my belly. I want to run my hands through the blond hair, kiss those plush, bitten lips...

"You're staring, mate." Ron interrupts my thoughts and I grumble irritably. I can't wait till our secret rendezvous tonight.

July Prompt #3 - @drarrymicrofic | Song Prompt - Bite by Troye Sivan

[fabulaprima]

Your congregation misses Alfie bear: what do you think baby Alfie was like? Was he the fabled ladies man (with that sweet, baby face). Was he a heart breaker? Did he have a special lady?

Hooooo buddy, this knocked something loose. My response follows, in multiple parts, over the span of who knows how long. We’re tagging/calling it Bitten Lips because Camden’s not in South London, but the lyrics in this song hit the same chords that your ask did.

Bitten Lips: Part 1/?

You were his very best friend growing up. Meeting on the shared playground between your respective primary schools wasn’t an unusual way to start a friendship. But kicking a boy in the side of head to save your not-yet-friend from a schoolyard beating probably was.

Five- or six-years-old was still young enough for neither of you to enact that silly learned shame of a girl defending a boy from a bully. Instead, it forged camaraderie between two scrubby outcasts. And when you were sent to the corner for bad behavior, it taught you that comfort could exist in the shape of Alfie Solomons’ hand on your shoulder.

For all their rapid fire curiosity, children tend to obsess—such was the nature of your fast friendship. School and sleep were mere interruptions to the important matter of life: playing in the rich world of your bizarre little imaginations.

“You can’t touch a dead bird!” you scold him one day when he bends to pick it up off the sidewalk. “Granda says it fills with faeries and then you’re IN for it.”

Alfie had met your grandfather before and secretly thought he was mad in the head. But better safe than sorry with faeries. “Just a feather’s alright. So we’ll not have any bad omens.”

He plucks one from its tail, the iridescent purple and blue flashing like magic against the black of it. You ask him what an omen is, and he says, very smartly, “like a dream or a sneeze or any shivery feeling, really.”

He lets you keep the feather. Tells you he’s got lots of talismans to keep him safe, that they’re in box under his bed. But you never see it. He plays at your house often, but you never visit his, and you never see the box of treasures. You ask him if it’s nice, having both a mum and a da, and he says he’d rather be like you, with just the one. “Mums yell, but I don’t think they hit.” You agree with him—no hitting as far as you know—and count yourself lucky. “But he’s not around much, just his hat on the peg.”

…

Time passes steadily. His father disappears and Alfie seems glad for it, but probably a little sad, too. You both grow up a bit, arms and legs stretching like taffy and covered in clumsy bruises. You each make other friends, and his mock him for spending so much time with a girl. But he bloodies a nose and earns his reputation defending your honor. You’re old enough now to know violence isn’t ladylike, but you’re secretly quite thrilled that he threw the punch.

You spend less time playing, but more time talking because adolescence is an embarrassing nightmare, and it seems like there’s some fresh new torture in store each day. You still pass most evenings piled on your bed, free from shame with one another because it’s Al, and it’s you, and neither of you count as the rest of the awful world.

You flick aimlessly through a schoolbook. “Josephine brought lipstick back from her holiday in Paris, so now everyone else wants to wear lipstick, but I think it’s just silly, it’ll get all over my face!”

You’re not sure he’s heard you at all because he launches right into his own worries. “Right, well, Jimmy Zara’s got hair under his armpits, so he says he’s a man now, and he’s bein’ a right prick about it.”

You contemplate the idea, unused as you are to even considering an armpit. “Do you have hair there?”

“No.” There’s petulance in his voice as he picks at a scab on his knee.

You can tell he’s disappointed. And though you’re not sure why, you think it best to encourage him. “Good. I don’t think I’d like it if you were a man.”

He scowls, but then a smile cracks through as he nudges your shoulder with his own. You don’t have any words to talk about a beautiful face yet, but can feel that his is lovely, even when he wrinkles his nose. “You’d look like a clown with lipstick.”

You’re wearing lipstick now, and you press your mouth tight together at the memory, standing in front of an office door with Solomons writ across it in gold lettering, “please don’t let him think I look like a clown.”

[nctairport]

cr. bitten lips / do not edit

[8806milesapart]

your lips my lips rosy lips tender lips bitten lips

[fabulaprima]

Drafts--Alfie Solomons’ Unsent Love Letters

(Installment #1 | 1914)

Neshama sheli,

I must’ve started this letter a dozen times. Then we move, something hits, and it seems a fool’s errand--explaining this shit. I could bore you with the cliches: digging trenches like digging your own grave or gripping to one nice memory, tryna get yourself through the lonely night. That’s all true enough, but it don’t capture it, not really. Hell exists, and I’m a fucking Captain in it. Can’t even lose myself to the nihilism of it all. Gotta give orders to the boys. Gotta send ‘em to their inevitable fucking demise. How many times has war been described in a letter to a lover, you think? ‘Bout as many times as love’s been described, I suppose. ‘Bout as many times as a stupid man’s died for nothing. But fuck me, I’ve not even got you as my lover, have I?

Truth is, I don’t wanna write this to you. Don’t wanna send it to you. Everything smells of death and I don’t want this shit clinging to anything that makes its way into your perfect hands.

Fuck me, none of that’s what I wanted to say, but I ain’t starting over again. What I wanna say is that I could cry for want of kissing you. Don’t cry when a man dies, didn’t cry when a bit of shrapnel tore through my cheek. But I have to choke down tears when I close my eyes ‘cause you live on the backs of them now and it hurts. Like there’s a hole in me and icy wind blowing through it. A cannon fires or a mine blows and my eyes shut and you’re there smiling and I can’t fucking live with myself. That color your cheeks turn when you’ve had a nip of whiskey or a glass of wine, class that you are--that’s my favorite color now, and I didn’t touch it once, and I’m a fucking fool for waiting.

All these years spent loving you...I was gonna blow into Camden like a goddamn train to kiss you dizzy, hear you whisper my name, ask you to wait for me. Finally, I was finally gonna do it. But they fucking took it from me. Took my chance, sent me straight here. Maybe it’s for the best. More than likely, I’ll be blown to bits. And more than likely the world won’t be any fucking less for it. But if I’d kept you waiting? Well, we’ve already covered not being able to live with myself, yeah?

Pray to God someone’s kissing you sweet like you deserve. Cursing God it’s not me.

-Al

[fabulaprima]

Bitten Lips (Part 7/7)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

Instead of turning you, he reaches around to slide the zipper of your dress down your back. It puts your nose right into the front of his shoulder. With both hands, he peels the fabric away from your skin like opening up wings and you shiver. It’s more than just flesh he’s exposing—nearly feels like your rib cage is open and your heart’s there for the taking.

You don’t realize you’ve whispered his name until he’s pulling back to look at you. “Alright?” he asks, and you nod so fast that you dizzy yourself because you’re better than alright. So he kisses your temple and brings his hands over the front of your shoulders, still clasping the back of your dress, so that it falls and gathers at your hips. You hear a clipped little intake of air and blush from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes.

His hands raise to your collarbones, just light touches with his fingertips, reverent and wide-eyed. You make no effort to hide your shivering as you push your dress past your hips to puddle at your feet. That’s when his hands start roaming, drawing scorching lines down your sides and up your back. You watch his face through heavy eyelids, cataloguing every time his nose flares and his mouth twitches when his fingers smooth over a swell of soft skin or his eyes catch the rising of goosebumps. When his knuckles glance against your nipple through your silken slip, both of you catch a moan mid-throat. You step closer to him until your chests meet and you curse the slow pace you’ve set because you’re on fire like this. The faint brush of fingertips, the shy glances--age has done nothing to quell your nerves. Your sweet Al is touching you like it’s some great privilege for him. And he kisses you as he pets. Soft, giddy pecks and slower, dragging lips and every so often, his teeth nipping at your tongue. He palms your ass with one hand, pulls you flush against him, and you break away from his mouth with a gasp because his cock is hard and that means he wants you and that means you might somehow disappoint him.

“I’m scared, Al.”

You didn’t know it until you’d said it, but it was true--you were frightened. Frightened that you’d built this moment up too much, that you’d somehow idealized all of it...frightened that things would turn awkward...but above all else, frightened that he’d lose interest in you after tying up this loose end.

He moves both hands to your face, lifts it to look at him, and kisses the very tip of your nose. “I’m right here, love. You’re safe with me.”

You struggle to look him in the eyes. “What if it’s not...what if I’m not...” you shake your head.

“Look, love...you are my wildest fucking dream, yeah? In the flesh. Better, in the flesh, than ever in my dreams.” He scoops you up into his arms, even though the bed’s only a step away, and rests you against the pillows. He shoves his trousers off as you settle in. Then he sits beside you, lifts your hand to his lips, and smiles. “Look like you fucking belonged here all along.”

The soft sincerity in his eyes is enough to calm your fears for the moment and you sit up at that suggestion. “Shouldn’t have let you leave,” you whisper against his cheek with a kiss. “Shouldn’t have taken Frank to that ball, either.”

He chuckles and pulls you in for a proper kiss. “I was a prick about it, you were right to put me in my place. Just made me so fucking angry, watching him make you laugh. Watching him get a kiss from you.”

That little admission of jealously, and the kisses turn sultry, have you curving a hand around his neck to pull him closer until you’re all but in his lap. Between them you whisper, “no more kisses for anyone else, hm? Just my Al?”

He devours your mouth at that idea, then pulls back just enough to breathe his next confession between your lips. “Always wanted to be your first.”

“My first kiss?” It’s something you’d wished for, too.

His lips brush against yours, but he doesn’t seal them. “Your first fuck. Not a fuck, though, something sweeter. Like this, maybe. Just wanted to do proper by you,” he says, smoothing your hair behind your shoulder. “Wanted to have that first together.”

You don’t say anything in response, and that worries him. But then you crawl the rest of the way into his lap and shimmy your slip up over your head. You drag your fingers through his hair and place your mouth just below his ear. “But my darling Al, you were my first. In the best possible way.”

He makes a curious sound, wanting clarification but not able to ask for it because you’ve sucked his earlobe into your mouth and you’re stark naked in his arms.

“First orgasm I ever had,” you whisper right into his ear. You feel him growl, more than you hear it. “I was thinking of you. I know they say you’re not supposed to touch yourself like that. But it feels too good to really be evil, don’t you think?”

You’re not sure where the sudden confidence has come from, but the brazen language has him grunting and groaning, and you wouldn’t stop those sounds for all the world. His arms come up around your back and he lays you flat.

“What did you think of?” he asks, almost shyly.

You smooth your palm over his shoulder. “Your hands, mostly. I’d think of your hands touching me, any part of me, and shivers would bloom everywhere.” You can hear him swallow, and then his fingers start tracing a slow path down your stomach, past your navel, into the soft thatch of hair between your thighs. One thick finger slips between your folds and you whine. “Your lips, too. God, Al, you’ve got the loveliest mouth. I imagined you testing every inch of me, just to see which spots liked your kisses the best.” His mouth tucks into the crook where you neck and shoulder meet and laves at your flushed skin.

“And you thought of that, of me? Until you came?”

You nod frantically, suddenly a little shy about the admission. But it only spurs him on and he slides two fingers into you, twisting and stroking and crooking them like he’s been doing it all his life. You try not to think about the idea that he’s had practice.

“What did it feel like?” he asks, between nips to your neck.

You shiver at the recollection, which you’ve kept fresh, invoking it over the years when you needed to pretend that things had gone differently. “Like...like flying. And maybe a little bit like dying. Breathless and warm, everywhere. You smiling soft, and telling me you love me. You lingered on the backs of my eyelids like that for a moment. And then...”

It hurts to finish the thought--the remembered realization that he wasn’t there beside you, to kiss and cradle you back to your senses. Just a cold and empty bed.

“Then?”

“And then you were gone,” you say, waiting until he lifts his face to look at you. His lips are red and shining, his eyebrows drawn together in distress. “Never felt so lonesome in my whole life.”

He meets your mouth with a searing kiss, tight and desperate. “Promise, you never have to feel lonesome like that again, yeah?” He slips his fingers out of you so he can guide his cock and your heart flutters when you feel the head of it press in.

His steady push drives the breath out of you both and he swears “fuck” through gritted teeth. There are so many ways of being together that you hope and pray to experience, but this--having him nestled inside of you like this--draws your heart up into your throat. It’s why you feel choked when you say his name.

He holds still, braced above you on one arm as he tries to collect himself. “So fucking perfect,” comes out as stilted breaths, his forehead pressed to yours. “Should’ve always been you.”

You hold his head in both hands, clench your cunt around him, and he whimpers. “We’ll make up for it,” you assure him. He nods and starts thrusting: long, dragging strokes out so that you can feel every inch of friction, and deep, full strokes in that spark fire through all your nerve endings. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, and you’re momentarily convinced that out of the entire universe, this one man was made for you from the start--that you’d met all those years ago because he was the path and the way to total fucking ecstasy. But the truth was far sweeter, and you knew it when he whispered, “want you to feel so fucking good, love.” He wasn’t made for you, nor you for him. You’d picked each other, and wanted, above all else, to bring each other happiness. And on your end, at least, happiness was never sweeter than when caused by your Al.

You cling to his shoulders as he picks up his pace, and you give up trying to muffle your cries. It’s too good, he feels too fucking good to repress anything, so you kiss him. Sloppy and unrestrained, just the distilled need to have your mouth on his, your breath twisted up together. He pulls one of your legs high around his back and you’re lost. The angle’s divine, his cock is divine, his heated breath and the smell of his sweat are all so sacred to you that the dying feeling starts flickering.

“M’close,” you mumble against his shoulder.

He puts a hand beneath your head and directs you to look at him. “Been waiting years to watch you come apart. Let me see, love. Let me see you.”

Tension, tightly strung tension from your eyebrows down to your arching feet, curling around every part of him. Out of your straining throat comes your gratitude, your confession, your release of guilt, your greatest happiness: “I love you,” breathed against his temple, like maybe the feeling will live in that hard head of his and keep him company, always. As soon as you’ve got it out, the whole world untangles. Every muscle turns to liquid, every bone light as a feather, and in the whispering ache of your cunt, you feel his own warm release. Through the wooly fog of your afterglow, you hear his choked relief and almost immediate light laughter. Your hands are still clung to his neck, fingernails raking through his shaggy hair, and an airy laugh escapes you, too. You stare at each other, really stare at each other with shining eyes. In wonder, perhaps, or complete adoration. He looks bright, almost young, and for a moment, you could nearly believe it was fifteen years earlier.

He smooths the hair from your sweaty forehead and kisses you there. “Will you stay with me?”

You laugh, high and bright because you’re giddy. Absolutely drunk on him. “I’m a puddle, Al. I’m not going anywhere.”

The back of his hand runs against your cheek, so softly, so affectionately that your heart blooms all over again. “For good, love. Will you stay with me for good?”

You know the answer already, but you let the moment linger, just to imprint the dazzle of it. You hold his hand in place, turn your head so that you can kiss the backs of his knuckles, and nod. “Spent too many days without you as it is.”

He falls asleep before you do, mouth soft as he snores gently, and you can’t look away. But for the first time, you don’t have to look away. You can openly adore and delight in him. And when he wakes in the middle of the night from another dream about you, for the first time, it doesn’t break his heart. Because your hand is pressed right above it, holding it safe.

[fabulaprima]

Bitten Lips (Part 2/?)

Read Part 1

“I wasn’t nervous.”

He comes barreling into your bedroom, hands dug into his pockets, face red as a beet, rambling about kissing Edie Powell. And when you dare ask if he was nervous, he snaps back at you like a viper. It’s all you can do not to shove him out of your room because for some reason, you feel like you’re going to be sick all over your freshly washed sheets.

“Well you’re nervous now.” Since you have no interest in parsing out why you’re seething with rage at the thought of him kissing Edie, you disguise your anger with that motherly tone he likes to tease you about. You expect more clipped venom from him, but instead, he softens and sits next to you on the bed.

“Yeah, ‘cause I mighta done it wrong.” He pauses and pulls clenched fists from his pockets. “Dinnit know what to do with my fucking hands.”

He’s started swearing in the last few months, and the habit’s already stuck. As a supposed young “lady,” you think you ought to act offended. But it suits him. It makes him sound less angry, somehow. Like he packages up all that teenaged angst in the punchy syllables and gets it out of his system. He seems ready to talk through whatever happened, but you’re not sure that you are. “You’re acting like it was your first kiss.”

He rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. “First proper kiss.”

“Proper?”

“You know...” one of his eyebrows arches. “...you know.”

You shrug your shoulders, even though you do know. But you don’t want to think about it with Edie in mind.

He stares at you like you’re daft, and you’d be offended if it weren’t kind of endearing. “Oh come on...you...open your mouth.”

You stare at his mouth and imagine it open. Against yours. Which is also open. A little thrill fizzes through you and you shake your head.

“I’m sure it was fine, Al.”

“Yeah, well, maybe fine’s not good enough.”

Fine never had been good enough. It’s why he made Captain so quick, why he was the King of Camden Town, king twice over if his tattooed hands had anything to say about it. ‘Cause let’s be honest: if you’re going to break a holy law, best do it in excess. So two crowns, one near the webbing of each thumb and forefinger--right where the world can see, y’know, as he drags it to him. As he kneads dough, and lifts jewels to the light, and wields that mighty pen of his to scribble out all the prophecies that keep London in his grasp.

The crown on his right hand suspends upside down a few inches from his mouth when he scrubs thoughtfully at his beard. And when there’s a knock at his door, it drops in defeat.

“Busy, fuck off.”

He awaits Ollie’s soft-spoken insistence, nearly impossible to hear from the other side of the thick wood. But something high and bright cuts through instead.

“Is there a better time? Someone I can schedule with?”

It’s a familiar voice, but muffled. He’s on his feet before he can figure out why it feels like he’s being haunted. Then’s he’s gripping the knob and turning it and swinging the door open wide and seeing you. Seeing you for the first time in nearly fifteen years and forgetting how to breathe and not knowing what the fuck to do with his hands.